


A Kind Of Hobby

by gisho



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Tarvek Sturmvoraus - Boy Detective, Warning: Canon-Typical Violence, high society politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 21:21:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19838740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gisho/pseuds/gisho
Summary: Tarvek has spent five years, intermittently, trying to discover the truth of his former friend Gil Hölzfaller's origins. His research is full of dead ends, but Tarvek isn't giving up the fight. Yet.





	A Kind Of Hobby

\--

The bandage over his eye itched, more than it had any right too. Tarvek was finding ignoring it increasingly difficult. He grabbed his left hand with his right and pressed his face to the window again. It felt cool and didn't soothe the itch at all. 

"You're going to break your glasses if you keep fiddling with them like that," Violetta told him. Again.

"I'm going to need new glasses anyway. Shush."

"Yes, well." She was fumbling for something to say; he didn't need to see her to know that. "Why are we going to Zmajev Zub, anyway? When you should still be in bed recovering?" 

It was just one eye, and Violetta couldn't do a convincing _prim_. Tarvek bit back a laugh, and closed his eye - the one that wasn't held shut by the bandage, the one he'd barely convinced Anevka to leave alone for a control - against the incipient headache. "We're going to Claudia van Bulen's birthday celebration," he said. "You may even get to wear a pretty dress. Do try to keep up."

"You could have got out of it. If you wanted."

"Well, I didn't want," he lied. "Social connections are important. Make yourself useful and get me a coffee." If he kept his eyes closed, Tarvek could pretend they were on the ground. Somewhere near a furnace, to explain the hum. He had enough excuse right now to keep his eyes closed.

\--

Claudia had her red hair in a modern Parisian weave, and wore a blue dress with old-fashioned puff sleeves, and when she saw his eye she gasped and said, "My goodness, what happened?" as if she cared. 

"Just a little lab accident. Nothing permanent," he said, and did his best to look charming. Claudia frowned, but she could hardly press the point.

The eye was going to be a problem. Something so obvious and memorable would make a mockery of any disguise he wore.

\--

The logic had gone like this: 

Someone would know who Gil was, even if he'd been brought on board Castle Wulfenbach too young to remember - well, into the Baron's custody; hard as it was to remember now there had been a time before the Castle was launched. 

Whoever had looked after him before Von Pinn, maybe. She had only come on board after the Baron took Mechanicsburg; that much Tarvek had gotten from the older students.

Or if they didn't know where he came from, they would at least know when he had turned up. The Baron took a special interest in Gil; where he'd been, what he'd been doing, just beforehand, would point in the right direction. There was the chance, of course, that someone 3else had found him - whoever he was, lost Heterodyne heir (not likely, unless Gil was younger than he thought) or Martian prince or even some heir of Andronicus's with a better claim than Tarvek (which he shouldn't hope for, but he was) - that the whole thing was down to chance, and the Baron had only involved himself later. In which case, tracking down the true story was hopeless, Tarvek might as well give up, and therefore, he'd decided, it wasn't true. There _was_ an answer and he would find it. He had to. 

So: he had written to Zulenna to call in a favor. Zulenna asked Gil some prying questions, as subtly as she knew how. And Tarvek got names - Johann Bel-something and Tobias Idon'tremember - and two years of timespan, for most of which the Baron had been darting around the Balkans in a desperate poker game with the Black Mist Raiders, the war that made Wulfenbach's name and made sure only madmen stood against him.

It was enough to start looking.

\--

Two years before Tarvek had that much, and could start his research in earnest. Three years of painfully tracing leads, writing letters in the name of nonexistent genealogists and demographers. It shouldn't bother him so much to wait another day.

He deliberately started to yawn somewhere around the third dance. It was a waltz, and his elderly dancing partner began to titter. "In my day children would have begged to stay up for a grand ball," she told him.

"In your day," Tarvek informed her, "nobody would have gotten in on a three-thirty flight. I'm getting another drink when the song is over. Would you like one, too?"

"Of course, young man. See they put a little more gin in this one."

Anevka was holding court by the window, surrounded as always by a gaggle of admirers, fluttering her dodo-feather fan in front of her face. It was a lovely, wide, and inefensible window; the Van Bulens relied on their wall, and acid-moat, and close proximity to the Zmajev Zub municipal guard, for defense. This wasn't exactly the Wastelands. In the darkness below was spread what might have been a hedge-maze or an ornamental garden but what, here, some paranoid gardener had convinced them to turn into a maize-maze. Its tufts fluttered in the breeze. Tarvek spared a breath to admire the sight before he shamelessly elbowed his way between the nearest idiot boy and his sister.

She turned a pout on him. "Tarvek! I was talking to Levi."

"He'll wait," Tarvek said, with a slightly superior smirk. Most of the other boys were chuckling at the interplay, the ones who weren't busy goggling at his bandage. Wrapping these kinds of idiots around her fingers came easily to Anevka; she was out of their league, but she gave them glorious moments of hope anyway, just long enough to snatch up their secrets. "I won't be long, anyway, I promised Claudia the next waltz." 

"Of course," his sister said, with a fond little smile.

He leaned in to whisper the next words in her ear. "I'll be out all night and most of tomorrow. Cover for me." Of course Anevka knew what to do; she laughed behind her fan, as if he'd just passed on a risque joke or a juicy piece of gossip, and then snapped it closed and smacked Tarvek on the nose. The feathers tickled. He smirked, just to taunt the boys watching - look, it said, I know her better than you ever will - and impulsively brushed a kiss on her ear. 

\--

Drink with too much gin duly delivered, Tarvek wandered off to find Claudia; he had to be seen waltzing with her at some point tonight. She turned out to be beside the punch bowl that was the party planner's concession to her being fourteen, being desperately polite at the Duke de Courcy. De Courcy was, as he generally was, talking about his old days on a war-walker - one of the first, when they were still the safest places on the battlefield. He'd apparently gotten through the 'smoking remains at the town gate' portion of the story, and moved on to the 'and the barmaid was so very, demonstratively grateful' section. No wonder Claudia looked so on-edge. Well, it made Tarvek's job easier. He slid up behind De Courcy and cleared his throat. It was petty to enjoy watching the man twitch and almost drop his plate of puff-pastries. 

"Oh, Tarvek!" Claudia was beaming as if he were her best friend, which he supposed he was by comparison. "There you are!" 

Well, he'd match her play. "I was wondering where you were," he said, bright and cheerful. "There's a waltz up next." 

"Of course! I promised! I'm sorry, your Grace, I have to go now," she said, which was clumsy, but she was young. She swept past him and grabbed Tarvek's hand, and they left him muttering something Tarvek didn't bother to listen to.

There were two huge chandeliers in the Van Bulens' ballroom, and if you looked closely you could see where the canvas-wrapped electric wire had been strung through the old-fashioned brass filigree, the candles replaced with carved soapstone imitations. The light they cast was a little too blue to imitate candlelight precisely, but true candlelight would have left Claudia looking jaundiced, so it was just as well. Tarvek steered them to a spot just beneath one, to make them the center of attention, and settled his hand on her waist. "I apologize for De Courcy," he offered. "Some men have accomplished _nothing_ since they were thirty."

From a fourteen-year-old it was an obvious joke, albeit a true one, and Claudia laughed as she took his hand; they were of a height and from the firmness of her grip Tarvek suspected he wasn't going to get to lead the dance. At least she was confident with her peers. "Some men never accomplish anything."

"I feel like I should apologize for all men, then."

The music was starting, and he was right, Claudia tugged him along without a moment's hesitation. "Really? Are you planning to do no nothing useful with the next sixteen years?"

"Certainly not." He might as well be honest; he was starting to think Claudia van Bulen would be a useful ally. "I'm going to find Van Rijn's muses and repair them. I mean," he added in the spirit of honesty, "it might take longer than sixteen years. But it's certainly worthwhile."

She smiled, a little drawn-looking. "For science?" Right, damn, her father had died in a lab accident, clanks might not be the best topic if they'd actually liked each other.

"Because they were amazing and unique," he said anyway, "and we could learn so much from them. Yes. For science. Why? What are you planning to do with the next sixteen years, birthday girl?" Maybe too friendly, but she'd invited it. 

Claudia looked aside, even as she kept leading him in firm circles. "I don't know. My brother wants to find a nice political marriage, but ..."

"University first, right? Please say he's sending you to university or I might have to challenge him to a duel."

At least that made Claudia smile. "He is. I want to study history."

"Lest it repeat itself. Good plan."

\--

Children's parties ended at midnight, that was accepted, and so it was just past one when Tarvek made his way up the blueberry tree, down to the top of the rammed-earth wall, and over a slipline to the pine tree on the other side of the acid moat. Careless of them to leave it there, but wild beasts didn't know about sliplines, and nobody was trying to assassinate the Van Bulens.

Tarvek had worked out, two years ago, that a boy of twelve hanging around taverns and searching through archives might attract undue attention. A stocky, plain woman of nineteen, though, was her own master and would attract no attention she couldn't turn aside with a withering look. Thus had Viola Bredon been created, with the aid of a skirt and jacket stolen from the laundry and a wig borrowed from his mother's closet, and wasn't it lucky she had liked to be blonde on occasion?

By two-thirty in the morning Tarvek was at the Corbettite station, sipping coffee at the reliably-open Screwdriver Café and wishing he'd kept Violetta out of his luggage long enough to keep ahold of his stimulants. He wished he could have hidden in some departing carriage. Too many Smoke Knights, too many possible questions. Tarvek shoved a slipping hairpin back into place and rearranged his skirt over his knees. It was showing too much ankle for a respectable gentlewoman of reduced means. It would have to do. He was getting too old for the disguise by now; his voice wasn't what it had been. And his contact was late, and the whole quest was beginning to feel like a particularly stupid children's game.

It was almost three and he was deep in an irrelevant and week-old _Lightning City Gazette_ when his contact hurried in, panting, what was left of his hair sticking up at odd angles and his redingcote spattered with rain. "Sorry, ma'am," he opened. "Busy night. Couldn't get away."

"No ma-" Tarvek coughed and started over, a little higher-pitched. "No matter. The Buda train doesn't leave until half past."

"Right." The man was looking sideways at Tarvek's face, blinking. "What happened to your _eye_?"

He should have just worn dark glasses. It would have looked eccentric, but it wasn't as if the man had ever met him before to wonder why Viola had started wearing them, while the bandage was obviously recent. "Don't ever try to take food from a Moldavian Puff. Did you have any trouble finding the papers?"

"Not much. Not nearly so much as I expected for a hundred marks." There was wariness in the man's voice, as if he expected Viola to try to cut his fee. Well, he was a barkeeper, not a professional spy. It was obvious in the way he furtively glanced around, as if anyone following him wouldn't have found a safe vantage by now, before he pulled a sheaf of yellowed papers from his bag and slid them across the table.

Tarvek glanced through them, just enough to make sure he wasn't being sold a gold-duplicator, then pulled his skirt up to retrieve the folded banknotes from his stocking. The barkeep carefully looked the other way, face twisted in embarrassment. Well, it took some men that way to be reminded that women had legs. He took the money without embarrassment, though, and even offered a cheery grin. "Thank you, ma'am. Don't suppose you want any more cargo manifests?"

"That depends entirely on whether what I'm looking for is in these. But if I do, I'll keep you in mind." His eye was itching again and he couldn't touch it; it would be distracting.

"Crew rosters? Bills of sale? There was an invoice for two thousand guilders in there from Harmon Silk Factory of all places, I've no idea what the Baron wanted all the -"

"Drink your coffee." That was a little deeper than he'd meant. Keep calm.

The man blinked. With his big brown eyes it made him look like a disgruntled cow. "What coffee?"

"The coffee you're going to order as soon as the waiter comes back," Tarvek said. "We won't be the only customers for long. Don't be memorable." It might or might not help, but he could try. He picked up the sheaf of papers and began to leaf through them in earnest, as if they were some business document he needed to discuss in Buda with someone very important. Unlike himself. He was just a young gentlewoman, somebody's secretary, taking an early train.

\--

The cargo manifest of valuables taken from the captured _Marguerite_ was long, written in the awkward scrawl of someone too tired to care about their penmanship, with occasional splotches from the stilled pen of someone stuck speechless by what they were expected to write. The Black Mist Raiders had been fond of improbable weaponry even by Spark standards. Plenty of people made acorns explode; Petrus Teufel had done it _on purpose_ , with a twenty-meter blast radius.

It would have been nice if Tarvek knew what he was looking for.

Look anyway. Trust his instincts. Don't expect an answer, just the next set of questions. The Baron had taken almost three years over his first war, and in those days - ten years ago, but it felt longer - the layers of bureaucracy had yet to settle around the bones of his government. All personal. Castle Wulfenbach wasn't in the air; Sturmhalten was an aerie of armed galleons, passengers tucked in between the cannons, instead of a convenient refueling spot for yachts. Tarvek had been so young he barely remembered it.

Tarvek was tired. Barrels of acid, barrels of envelope-wash, barrels of fuel additive, barrels of brandy, barrels of pureed cucumber. That had gotten a hesitation spot. Nothing so far that demonstrated the presence, or absence, of a small child.

He didn't bother vanishing as he walked out of the station. His contact was the only one who expected him to leave on the Buda three-thirty-seven.

The cold bit through his inadequate fashionable blouse like the sudden sting of a neurotoxin. And they called this summer. He had to finish the manifest, had to sleep on it at least and work out his next target - he could miss lunch if Anevka pretended he had a hangover, but he had to be back by teatime. Twelve hours. One hundred twelve meters of - sulfur wire? Couldn't be. Oh. Silk, white. Somebody should invent a machine that had perfect handwriting. One where you just approximated the shape with a stylus and the gears did the rest, or even just punched a button for the letter, maybe, if people could find the buttons. And donate a thousand to the Baron's clerks.

Which meant someone who wasn't a Spark would have to do it. Sparks did - poorly with mass production. He could see the gears in the back of his mind, as clearly as he'd seen the curls of thermal fluid around the Great Hall fireplace. Tarvek shoved it away and deliberately stepped off the pavement onto a cobblestone that wasn't there and _ouch_. He managed not to drop the papers. He wasn't a complete incompetent.

\--

Tarvek dreamed of fleeing through a massive library, stacks so high he couldn't make out the top, especially with his two nearsighted eyes, dark wood blurring together and parallel ladders bending improbably to meet at a point. He didn't dare scream, in a library. The noise of his bare feet was too loud and his throat was on fire from the breath he didn't dare let free, and he would never be fast enough. Just give it up, Violetta screamed at him. Just let it eat you.

I can't. I'm poison.

So who cares if it dies, Violetta answered, and drew the sword of the Storm King from beneath her lacy skirt. Let it eat you. I'll cut you out. You'll only lose a little flesh.

It was getting closer. The thunder of its footfalls made volumes rain down from high above, thick leatherbound town records and books of law and compilations of sketches, notes, he would never read them in time. Tarvek grabbed a book at random for a shield and the bulk of Violetta's mace - the Storm King's mace, the Platonic Solid - came down on his wrists. Don't, she hissed, you brought this on yourself.

It was right on top of them, it would have him for a snack and then it would find Gil.

He had no sensation of waking. There was an unfamiliar wood ceiling above him, and Tarvek could tell by the light it was midmorning, but from his bandaged eye he couldn't actually see the window.

Tarvek pulled himself slowly from the hotel bed. There was no reason his muscles should ache, but they did, and his shift was almost sweated through. It would have been nice to have a room with a private bath, he could have risked an actual bath then, but Viola Bredon would just have to get dressed in yesterday's - earlier this morning's - clothes, wash her face in the basin and pin her wig over disastrous hair, and hope the hotel cooks did passable coffee.

There was a mirror over the washbasin, at least. Tarvek sat in front of it in his shift and peeled the bandage away from his eye, holding the other hand for a shade, to keep the pupil dilation from pulling loose the incisions.

Better, at least. Swollen, blood-flecked, all he saw from it was a sudden stabbing brightness, but he could see.

\--

The logic went like this: if they were people the Baron trusted with an important secret, like a Martian prince or a lost Heterodyne heir Johann Bel-something and Tobias Idon'tremember were likely people he'd known before he started building his empire. People from his old hometown, maybe, or who'd been at Transylvania Polygnostic at the same time he had, or who the Heterodyne Boys had gotten mixed up with somewhere in their heroic career. The last was hopeless, but 'of Wulfenburg' or 'Doctor, TPU 1850' might turn up on a marriage license or a guild membership, something he could track down.

The municipal records archive opened at nine. Viola Bredon turned up at ten-thirty, stomach full of bad hotel coffee and worse hotel porridge.

Three hours of careful reading later, and Tarvek's headache had only gotten worse. He knew this was an unlikely attempt, that he was hunting needles. But Tarvek couldn't bring himself to give up yet. There was always a chance. He took a deep breath and didn't lay his head on the records. Nobody named Johann Bel-something had gotten married in Zmajev Zub between 1840 and 1859, not that he had really expected to find something in a courthouse ledger.

There was a perfectly acceptable garden party at the Van Bulen's estate right now, and he was missing it in favor of tracing through dusty records in search of an unlikely clue he was increasingly convinced didn't exist. At least no one would miss him. Anevka was reliable like that. She would have said he was feeling poorly, with that slight touch of disdain to her voice that implied he was hung over, and everyone would nod politely and roll their eyes internally. Underestimating him. He could rely on Anevka, even if he never admitted what he needed the time for; she was on his side.

He'd gone through the cargo manifest and found nothing. He would find the answer in some other dusty record.

That, or more likely, whatever Gil's secret origin was it was a secret known to Baron Wulfenbach alone. Tarvek could prove nothing. At least he knew the _Marguerite_ had played no part whatsoever.

His subconscious mind knew better. His subconscious mind had already given up. Gil hadn't turned up in Tarvek's nightmares for months.

He licked his finger and flicked the next page over. February 1860. Nobody named Tobias. No suspicious names at all. Another day of dead ends.

\--

Nothing but the best for Claudia's party. Her brother had engaged Tomlin and Daughters, the finest caterers in the city. They had wagons full of delicacies on ice, barrels of fresh fruit and flagons of fresh punch, all beneath a state-of-the-art cooling system which Tarvek would have liked to get a closer look at, except he was too busy keeping his teeth from chattering. Nobody would look in here; nobody was going to bother with Smoke Knights against the Van Bulens, who were, after all, a minor old family grafted onto that despicable new money. More fool their father for wanting business sense in a wife.

He drifted unseen through the kitchens, got back to his room, and had the wig off and away and the skirt half-folded before Violetta's incredulous voice piped up, "Petticoats?"

" _How_ long have you been here?" How tired was he that he hadn't heard her come in?

"Twenty seconds. I was going to search your luggage for a note. In case you'd jumped in the moat. Or eloped with someone, I'd have figured you were too young to elope but maybe I should have figured you were -"

"Shut up," he hissed, before she could say anything he'd have to hit her for. "Just shut up."

"I thought you said _I'd_ get to wear a pretty dress."

"Does this look pretty to you?" He shook the jacket at her, all its plain brown dyework and old-fashioned military buttonwork and patches on the elbows, for hard wearing. "It was a disguise, you numskull, not an attempt at sartorial experimentation. Go get your pretty dress, I know you packed one, we have a _show_ to attend." He just hoped Violetta was too off balance to wonder what he'd needed a disguise for.

For once his hopes were fulfilled. She went stiff, hands curling into fists. Violetta was easy to read. "Oh, so _me_ you're just going to push around?"

"What?" That - wasn't the insult he'd expected.

"Do you just want someone to take it out on?" She poked him in the eye - the one with the bandage still over it, and that couldn't possibly be good for it, he'd have to get Anevka to give him a checkup later, but at least the pain wasn't severe - and grabbed his shoulder, so he couldn't back away. "You let your father walk all over you! Your sister said _Get on the slab, I've got an idea, it probably won't leave you blind_ , and you crawled right up and let her strap you down and stick knives in your eyeballs! And then you turn around and call me an idiot for thinking you were worth worrying about! Is that just what the world is to you? People to - to bow and lick their boots, and people you get to stomp on?" From the scrunched-up red look on her face she'd stopped to catch her breath, not because she'd run out of insults.

It was no good pointing out that letting Anevka stick knives in his eye meant Tarvek might, once he healed, be able to read signs a block away without glasses. "You should know your place," he said instead, in what was meant to be a tone of cold fury but came out more like a petulant whine, between his pounding headache and the bitter aftertaste of wasted research. "Aren't Smoke Knights supposed to be _silent_?"

Violetta was silent for about two seconds. Then she slapped him, hard enough to make his ears ring. It would have been poetic if she'd stalked out without saying anything, but in fact she hissed, "Stuck-up useless prat," and stomped out, rattling the floorboards. Violetta was the death of poetry.

\--

The local amateur troupe Claudia's brother had scared up - maybe _The Heterodyne Boys and the Race to the West Pole_ was beneath the dignity of whatever professional theater there was in Zmajev Zub, or maybe he'd run out of money after the catering - did a surprisingly skilled performance in the hastily-constructed half-tent on the lawn. Her brother watched in rapt fascination; Claudia watched with an air of polite attention and spent a lot of time hiding her smirk behind her fan at the jokes Tarvek leaned in to whisper. She was - just - fourteen and all the wife-hunters were circling Anevka, so Tarvek, fourteen and not hunting anything Claudia knew about, had gotten the seat beside his hostess without so much as having to trip anyone. It paid to be young and harmless.

Violetta, in traditional fashion, had taken a seat directly behind them in the apparent hope Tarvek could feel her glaring.

There was cake, afterwards. Claudia gave a little speech. All perfectly proper.

\--

When he got back upstairs Anevka was snapping at a terrified-looking maid she must have borrowed from the Van Bulens - she should really just have brought her own lady's maid, Adele was used to her temper, but for some reason their father thought Violetta could substitute when they were traveling - with her gown laces half undone. "You've got them all tangled, mimmoth-brain," she said, and then, "Tarvek! Tarvek, come get me out of this, show this imbecile how it's meant to be done."

He knelt behind her to take stock. The dress wasn't in that bad shape; it was just the one knot that had been pulled taut. He pulled the setting-screwdriver off his watch case and set to work, while the maid stood with clasped hands, trying not to look like she expected to be beaten. Poor girl, she was probably more used to serving coffee than dealing with fancy gowns.

"You're dismissed," he told the maid, as soon as Anevka's dress was puddled around her. "I'll take it from here."

Anevka looked over her shoulder to smirk at him. "Will you now? I still need my hair taken down."

"Every piece." He tugged on the knot of her corset-laces, and it slid free. "But I do have ulterior motives."

"What would those be, brother dear?"

"I need you to take a look at my eye. It got - knocked about."

"Violetta?" She snorted. "You let that girl walk all over you. Very well. Fetch my tools when you're done. The green leather folder in the brown suitcase."

He knew the one she meant, and once he'd handed it over he settled into the tall armchair and closed his eye - the undamaged one, the one Anevka wouldn't touch until she knew her experiment on the other had worked - while Anevka,turned down the gaslights. He felt her cool fingers on his face, brushing aside his fringe and peeling back the bandage. His headache was already retreating at the touch. Anevka gently pulled his eye open; he could make out the reddish glow of her hunting light.

"Tsk," she finally said. "Pulled stitch on the iris - I'd better reinforce it. I didn't bring my calipers, though. You'll have to hold it open while I work." The idea brought a whimper to Tarvek's throat, but he managed to turn it into a mumble of agreement. He'd held his concentration through worse.

\--

The logic went like this: Gil had to be _someone_ or he wouldn't have been there. So, it was worth knowing who. He might be someone they could use.

And if Tarvek was doing all his research alone, not even telling Anevka why, well, the answer might be dangerous. Bad enough he'd given Zulenna so many hints, even if he'd needed her to ask questions. A terrible idea, if Zulenna had been brought up in the Knights of Jove. How lucky she was too honorable to be suspicious. No, he couldn't risk asking for help. His relatives had never noticed Gil Hölzfaller's existence and Tarvek meant to keep it that way.

And if after three years he'd not turned up so much as a whisper, if he was starting to think the answer was buried somewhere only Baron Wulfenbach could unearth it -

\- then he was giving in to despair, and shouldn't. There was always an answer, no matter how obscure. There was always a way through, no matter how many thorns you had to shove past to get there. Tarvek had to keep thinking that. All his plans were long-term.

When they were friends Tarvek used to imagine they'd find the Muses together and fix them and people would call Gil the second Van Rijn and nobody would care about his family at all.

Tarvek kept his eye on the sky. There were thick clouds, a summer thunderstorm in the south, and the air under the dock awning already smelled of rain. The ship they were meant to leave on should have left ten minutes ago. It hadn't landed yet.

Violetta punched him in the shoulder. "Stop moping," she ordered. "You don't control the weather. And don't you dare try to build a weather machine out of bits of our luggage, I like this suitcase."

"Don't be ridiculous." He crossed his arms and glared at the roiling clouds. "I'm not going to do a stupid thing like that."

"Good."

"It'd take half the building framing. And more copper than I have here."

"What? You can't be -" She must have noticed Tarvek's grin, because she broke off with a hiss. "You're not going to try when we get home, are you? Because when that bloke at TPU tried it he just flooded half the campus, and Doctor Survini was still smoking when they found the pieces."

Good to know she's been keeping up with the scientific press. "So I won't use their experimental approaches. But look at it like this, Violetta." And maybe his grin was a little too gleeful, but they were the only people stupid enough to wait outside in the wind and wet, and couldn't he tease her back for once? "What kind of Storm King am I if I can't raise storms on command?"

She stomped on his foot. "A live one. Try it and I'll stab you in the other eye."

His headache was starting up again, from all the staring into the distance. At least he had Violetta watching his blind side.

\--


End file.
